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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27239176">Stuck in my Head (with nothing left)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualjuliet/pseuds/asexualjuliet'>asexualjuliet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Julie and The Phantoms (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(minor) - Freeform, Alex Has Anxiety (Julie and The Phantoms), Canon Gay Character, Coming Out, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, I’m thinking about him... Alex Julie and the Phantoms, Luke and Reggie are the best friends ever, POV Second Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, These boys all love to hug each other so much I’m absolutely soft for it, Vomiting, i love them</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:46:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27239176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualjuliet/pseuds/asexualjuliet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You’re twelve years old the first time someone calls you a f*g.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, it’s the nineties, and Alex is figuring himself out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alex &amp; Luke Patterson (Julie and The Phantoms), Alex &amp; Reggie (Julie and The Phantoms)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>221</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Stuck in my Head (with nothing left)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/amethystwriter/gifts">amethystwriter</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I love them all so much omg... thinkin bout these himbos all day long.</p><p>The movie Luke and his irrelevant girlfriend watch on their date... it’s Newsies okay. Thanks to Kenny Ortega for my seventh grade hyperfixation and thanks to Kenny Ortega for JATP.</p><p>Timeline spans from 1990-1994.</p><p>Disclaimer: I’m queer but i’m not gay/mlm in any way; if I got anything about the gay experience horribly wrong, please don’t be afraid to tell me!</p><p>wrt to the internalized homophobia tag: he’s an anxious catholic boy growing up in the 1990s i feel like that’s kind of inevitable.</p><p>Title from Bright but I chose it with five minutes to go until I had to go to sleep so if I wake up tomorrow and it’s shitty I might go back and change it.</p><p>Hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re twelve years old the first time someone calls you a f*g.</p><p>You know what it means (of course you do, you’re not <em> stupid. </em>Your parents are strict, but you do, like, watch movies and stuff. You know things).</p><p>You know what it means, but it’s the first time the word has been applied to you. You can see where the kid is coming from: you’re shy and sensitive and you like to dance, but you’ve never quite thought of that word in relation to yourself before. </p><p>It catches you off-guard, and you’re so lost in your head about why he chose <em> you </em>to say that word to instead of Reggie or Luke that you don’t notice what’s happened until Luke’s already socked the kid in the face. </p><p>“Luke!” you hear Reggie yell, and the kid in front of you punches Luke right back. </p><p>Given that Luke’s twelve and stands four eight at the highest, it’s no surprise when the punch topples him right over. </p><p>Reggie kneels down beside Luke right away, all “Holy shit, dude, are you okay? Your nose is bleeding, man,” and a teacher who’s come out of her classroom to survey the scene starts questioning the older boy. </p><p>You stand there, frozen, holding your backpack straps so tight that you can barely feel your fingers. </p><p>You kind of want to cry. </p><p>“Hey, man, you okay?” asks a voice from your left. </p><p>You look. Reggie’s gotten up from the floor and is now standing beside you as Luke is getting dragged away by a teacher. </p><p>You just look at him, lip wobbling, and he sighs, because he knows you well enough by now to know that you’re seconds away from bursting into tears. </p><p>“C’mere,” he says, and he takes you by the shoulder into the nearest bathroom. </p><p>You start to cry as soon as the door closes behind you, hiding your face in your hands, and Reggie just wraps his arms around you. </p><p>It’s nice, and you melt into it until you remember the word that boy had thrown at you. You push him away from you; try to wipe your tears on your sweatshirt sleeve in an attempt to seem less babyish, less sensitive, less <em> queer.  </em></p><p>“I’m okay,” you insist, but Reggie just looks at you until your eyes well up with tears again. </p><p>“If you don’t want a hug, that’s okay,” he says. “Just—just tell me what you need. Take your time.”</p><p>You want a hug. You want a hug so fucking bad, but you’re <em> not </em> a f—you’re not <em> queer, </em>and you’re twelve years old, which is too old to be crying in the bathroom and hugging other boys. </p><p>“Can we go to class?” you ask, and Reggie nods. </p><p>He slings an arm across your shoulders as you walk out the door, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way your muscles tense when he does. </p><p>-</p><p>You’re thirteen years old and drinking bad school dance punch in the corner of the gym when Becky Meyers asks you to dance with her.</p><p>This is a problem for two reasons. </p>
<ol>
<li>Luke has been plucking up the courage to ask Becky Meyers to dance all night. </li>
<li>You don’t want to dance with Becky Meyers. </li>
</ol><p>But you’ve never been able to let people down easy, and Reggie’s looking at you like you’d be crazy not to say yes. </p><p>“Y—Yeah,” you say, and before you can prepare yourself, she leads you out onto the dance floor and puts her arms around your shoulders. </p><p>You just catch a glimpse of Luke storming out of the gym before your shaky hands find her hips. </p><p>You watch Reggie follow him out and ignore the sick feeling building in the pit of your stomach as you sway back and forth. </p><p>Luke had said last week that he thought Becky Meyers was the prettiest girl in school. Looking at her now, you don’t quite see what he was talking about. Objectively, yeah, she’s got long blonde hair that you’d love to french braid and big blue eyes that remind you of Reggie’s, but you don’t… see the appeal. You’re sure she’s pretty, but you don’t feel butterflies in your stomach when you look at her as much as a churning ocean of nausea. </p><p>You feel a little feverish, actually, now that you think about it. Your face burns, waves of heat making their way down your body. It’s a little hard to breathe, and you find yourself counting down the seconds until the song ends. </p><p>When it finally does, you’re out the door before Becky Meyers can ask for your number. </p><p>You take a deep breath when you get outside, let the winter air fill your lungs, and you start to feel a little bit calmer when someone calls “Alex?”</p><p>It’s Reggie, leaning a little bit further down the brick wall of the school building. Luke is sitting on the ground next to him, hugging his knees and pointedly not looking at you, Reggie’s flannel draped over him. </p><p>“Hey, you okay?” Reggie asks, which is fair, because you’re pretty sure you’re on the brink of a panic attack. </p><p>But you’ve done enough damage tonight, both to Becky and to Luke, so you nod your head wordlessly and ignore the sick feeling in your stomach that only grows as you make your way over to sit next to Luke. </p><p>He turns away from you, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of Reggie’s flannel to keep you from seeing his angry tears. </p><p>“I don’t even like her,” you tell him. </p><p>“Then why’d you dance with her?” he asks, and you shrug. </p><p>“I don’t like to make people sad,” you say, which is true, but at the same time, you know you’re the reason why <em> he’s </em>so sad, and the words feel fake somehow. </p><p>Luke sighs. Reggie sits down next to him; puts an arm around his shoulder. </p><p>“This dance is lame,” he says. “C’mon, let’s go down to Lizzie’s for ice cream.”</p><p>“I didn’t bring any money,” Luke says. Reggie shrugs, standing up. </p><p>“Alex is paying,” he says, a twinkle in his eye as he gives Luke a hand up off the ground. </p><p>You don’t complain, just roll your eyes and follow them to Lizzie’s. You want to make this up to them. </p><p>-</p><p>You’re fourteen years old when Luke kisses a girl for the first time. </p><p>“Tiffany Spier,” Reggie says, for the hundredth time. “I can’t <em> believe </em>you kissed Tiffany Spier.”</p><p>“It was so awesome, man,” Luke says. You twirl a drumstick between your fingers and stare up at the ceiling. </p><p>Band practice was supposed to start an hour ago. Luke wandered into your garage fifteen minutes late, with a lovesick smile that makes you want to gag. </p><p>They’d gone to see that new Disney movie at the theater, and after he had walked her home, she’d thanked him for the date and kissed him. </p><p>The story is simple enough, and you don’t really know why Luke’s still walking you through it after forty-five minutes. </p><p>“I think I love her,” says Luke, in all his fourteen-year-old melodrama. “God, guys, she’s so pretty, and her lips are so soft—”</p><p>“Can we start practice?” you ask sharply, and you don’t really care how rude you know you’re being, because if you have to hear another word about Tiffany Spier’s soft lips, you think you might hurl.</p><p>“Geez,” Luke says, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Sorry, man.”</p><p>Reggie looks at you oddly. You look away and take a seat at your drums. </p><p>Luke starts singing. Reggie starts playing. </p><p>You bash the drums in front of you as hard as you can and try to forget about Tiffany Spier. </p><p>-</p><p>You’re fifteen years old, sitting on Luke’s bed and listening to Reggie talk about some girl in his math class when you finally equate the sick feeling you get in your stomach whenever Luke and Reggie talk about girls with the fact that you’ve never seen a girl with eyes like Reggie’s or a smile like Luke’s. </p><p>Oh, <em> shit. </em></p><p>Your brain fucking explodes on you, all <em> what will your parents say? What will the boys say? Oh, God, everyone’s going to hate you. </em> </p><p>You want to cry. You kind of feel like you’re going to throw up. </p><p>Scratch that, you’re definitely going to. </p><p>You clap a hand to your mouth as the nausea works its way up your throat; practically catapult yourself over Reggie’s legs to get off the bed, run across the hallway and fall to your knees on the hard tile floor of the bathroom before spewing your lunch into the toilet. </p><p>“Holy shit!” you hear Luke say, and then there’s footsteps coming across the hall, a hand on your back and one holding back your hair, and it feels nice, but it <em> shouldn’t, </em> because you’re a boy and <em> he’s </em> a boy and God, if he knew what you were, he wouldn’t be doing this for you, wouldn’t be rubbing your back or holding your hair or whispering “hey, you’re okay” in your ear. </p><p>You let loose a sob along with the remaining contents of your stomach and bury your face in your arms. </p><p>“Hey,” Luke says, in the softest voice you’ve ever heard him use, “Hey, what’s wrong?”</p><p>God, isn’t that the question?</p><p><em> Well, </em> you imagine yourself saying, <em> it turns out I’m a fucking fairy, so things have kind of gone to shit. </em></p><p>You don’t say that. </p><p>“I just don’t feel good,” you say, leaning against the shower, and technically, it’s not a lie, because, if you’re being honest, you feel like shit. </p><p>Luke puts a hand to your forehead and you pretend your heart doesn’t skip a beat. “You don’t feel warm.”</p><p>There’s a tentative knock on the door. </p><p>“Yeah, Reg, come in,” Luke says, and Reggie opens the door, sits down across from you, and places a glass of water in your hands with a hesitant smile. </p><p>“You okay?” he asks as you take a sip, and you shrug. </p><p>“Probably just ate something bad,” you lie. </p><p>Reggie nods. Luke puts an arm around you, and your shoulders tense. </p><p>If he notices, he says nothing. </p><p>-</p><p>You’re sixteen years old, and you’ve found a solution to the <em> queer </em>situation:</p><p>Don’t say anything. To anyone. Ever. Because if they knew, you would have <em> no one.  </em></p><p>You go to school. You say nothing. </p><p>You go to band practice. you say nothing. </p><p>You go home. You say nothing. </p><p>You go to church every Sunday; surround yourself with people that would hate you if they knew what you were. </p><p>You say nothing. </p><p>And it works.</p><p>Kind of.</p><p>You kind of want to cry, like, all the time. Your heart pounds whenever Reggie asks you about any girls you might have your eye on. You feel sick every time you think too hard about what you are.</p><p>You try and write it all down, keep a journal so you can spill your guts to someone who won’t respond (you ignore how much of a pussy you know that makes you), try and make yourself less sad, less angry, less absolutely terrified about what you are.</p><p>It doesn’t work, and when you walk down for dinner one day to see the journal in your father’s hands, you know shit’s about to go down.</p><p>-</p><p>You don’t quite know how you got here. You remember the journal, you remember your parents yelling. You remember grabbing the notebook from your dad’s hands and just <em> running.  </em></p><p>You find yourself outside a 7-11 across town, tears streaming down your face, and quickly realize you can’t go home. </p><p>Before you know what you’re doing, you walk over to the payphone on your left, put in a quarter, and dial Luke’s number. </p><p>“Hello?” he answers. </p><p>“Luke,” you say, in a sigh of relief. “I—I—”</p><p>“Alex? You okay?” he asks, voice dripping with worry. </p><p>“I don’t—” your words cut off in a sob. “Shit, I—”</p><p>“Hey, it’s okay,” he says gently. “It’s okay, man. Take your time. What’s going on?”</p><p>His voice is so kind, so soft that you let out another sob.</p><p>“I need a ride,” you say. “And—and a place to crash.”</p><p>“Okay. I can do that,” he says. “Where are you, man?”</p><p>“I’m at the—at the 7-11 on Main Road,” you tell him. “I don’t—I’m sorry, I just—I don’t have anywhere else to go.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Luke says. “I’ll be there in five, okay?”</p><p>You nod jerkily, then remember he can’t see you.</p><p>“Yeah,” you say. “Bye.”</p><p>“See you,” says Luke. </p><p>You hear the phone hang up on his end, and you do the same on yours. </p><p>You can’t go home. You don’t have any money. You sink down to sit against the wall behind you; hold your shitty queer journal to your shitty queer heart and just fucking sob. </p><p>-</p><p>“Alex?” a voice says, and you look up. </p><p>“Hey,” you say, voice breaking. You can only imagine how pathetic you look. </p><p>Luke looks at you with furrowed brows and worried eyes; sits down next to you and says “What happened, man?”</p><p>Your eyes well up with tears again, because you <em> can’t </em> tell him. If you tell him, nothing will <em> ever </em> be the same. He’ll fucking <em> hate you.  </em></p><p>“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, pulling you into a hug. You flinch away, because you’re <em> bad, sick, dirty, wrong, </em>and you can’t risk exposing him to that, can’t risk him knowing what you are. </p><p>“Okay,” he says. “No hugs. That’s okay. Just—Just tell me what’s going on, Alex.”</p><p>You can’t tell him. You can’t tell him, and you know this, but your mind is racing and you can’t come up with an excuse, and somehow you find yourself telling him “You’re going to <em> hate me” </em>before bursting into tears and burying your face in your knees. </p><p>A tentative hand finds its way to your shoulder, thumb rubbing circles in your back as you sob. </p><p>“I could never hate you, man,” he says, and you just cry harder, because your own <em> parents </em>can’t stand to look at you and you don’t see any reason he’s going to be any different. </p><p>“Whatever it is,” he says. “Whatever happened, we’ll get through it. You’re tough, man, you can handle anything.”</p><p>You hug the journal close to your chest, hold it so tight you swear you start to cut off your circulation. </p><p>“My parents kicked me out,” you say in a small voice, and it’s not entirely true; they never actually told you to leave, but you’re pretty damn sure they don’t want you back, so it’s close enough. </p><p><em> “What?” </em>Luke says, and he sounds ready to fight your parents himself. “What? Alex, why?”</p><p>The words are on the tip of your tongue, but you <em> can’t </em>make yourself say them.</p><p>“Alex?” he says. “Whatever it is, I won’t get mad, okay?”</p><p>You want to believe him, with his big brown eyes and soft, gentle voice, but everything you know is telling you not to trust his words.</p><p>“You’re going to hate me,” you say again, voice breaking off in a sob. “You’ll <em> hate </em> me and you’ll tell Reggie and he’ll hate me, <em> too, </em> and everyone will know, and everyone will <em> hate me, </em>Luke!”</p><p>You feel him shift closer to you; feel him bring your head to rest on his shoulder and rub your back as you cry yourself out.</p><p>“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want,” Luke says quietly, after your sobs taper off. “I’m just—I’m just worried about you, man. And I know you don’t like to—to talk about your feelings and shit, but it’s better than keeping them all to yourself, y’know?”</p><p>Yeah. You do. </p><p>“Do you promise you won’t hate me?” you find yourself asking. “You—you have to promise.”</p><p>“Of course, dude,” Luke says. “I could never hate you, man, you know that.”</p><p>“You can’t tell,” you say. “You can’t—not even Reggie, Luke, you can’t tell anyone.”</p><p>“Promise,” he says, holding out a pinky.</p><p>You link your pinkies together and take a deep breath.</p><p>“I—” you try. Another deep breath. “I’m—”</p><p>The words are stuck in your throat. You’ve never said them out loud before.</p><p>“It’s okay, man,” Luke says. “Take your time.”</p><p>You try again, but they don’t make it past your lips.</p><p>You look down at the book in your lap; flip through it until you find the page you’re looking for. You look up at Luke, eyes flitting across the page.</p><p><em> I’m gay, </em> it says, in big messy letters, repeated over and over as if you were trying to get the message through to yourself more than anything, and then, in smaller, neater cursive: <em> and I’m sorry. </em></p><p>When Luke doesn’t say anything after a few seconds, you shut the journal and attempt to hide it from view.</p><p>“Hey,” he says when you do. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I— you know I take a while to read things, I was just—”</p><p>A tear rolls down your cheek. Luke brushes it away with his thumb. </p><p>“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, man, it’s fine. You don’t—there’s nothing wrong with you, okay? Whatever your parents said is bullshit, okay? You don’t—you shouldn’t be sorry for—for who you are.”</p><p>You give him a disbelieving smile, tears running down your face, and he smiles back. </p><p>“Can I give you a hug?” he says. “I know earlier, you didn’t want—I don’t know, man, you just look like you need a hug.”</p><p>You laugh wetly; nod your head through the tears; let Luke wrap you in his arms, and it feels so fucking good, good in a way that you haven’t felt in <em> years. </em></p><p>You bury your face in his shoulder and hug him tighter than you can remember ever hugging anyone. </p><p>“I’m proud of you,” he says, “and I love you, man. You know that, right?”</p><p>You can’t respond through the force of your sobs, but you hope Luke knows what you mean when you hug him even tighter. </p><p>(You’ve got the feeling he does).</p><p>And you don’t have your family.</p><p>And you don’t have a house.</p><p>But you’ve got Luke in your corner, and you’re gonna take all the small victories you can get. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!</p><p>All mistakes are my own, please let me know if you see any!</p><p>Kudos/Comments are greatly appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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